A Perfect Violation
by Lea of Mirkwood
Summary: [Phone Booth] Don't answer the phone. Don't take the elevator. Beg for your life. COMPLETE.
1. Perfection

**

The Perfect Violation Lea of Mirkwood

**

Disclaimer: I'm not even sure I want to claim ownership of Tricia. But I really don't own anyone else.

Author's Note: I've been sitting here for two hours trying to convince myself NOT TO WRITE THIS. It didn't work. Obviously. I should not write this. But here goes...

AN2: This plotbunny was sitting under my bed making heavy breathing noises all night. I have never written anything like this, so tell me how I did. Let's see, what did Becky say? "There is a fine line between fan and sexual predator and I'M DANCING ON IT!" Too much Kiefer.

Note on Tricia: I'm not writing a romance. There is nothing romantic about this. It is cold, twisted and completely unromantic. Tricia is not meant as a love interest in any way. Just...she's a bitch, okay? She's the kind of woman everyone fucks and hates, and gets her just desserts here.

--- --- ---

Tricia MacNeill was a climber. Not a social climber, but a corporate climber, and she was a firm believer in the philosophy of "the ends justifies the means." She didn't care what she did to get up there, as long as she ended up with a couple extra zeroes padding her Prada wallet. In other words, she fucked a lot of people, both figuratively and literally. She was cutthroat, ruthless and a shameless money-whore.

And his next execution.

She was tall and leggy, with dark blond hair she kept permed and liberally highlighted light blond. She wore pencil skirts and scooped neck silk shirts. It distracted people away from the cold, calculating look in her cruel blue eyes. She wore high heels, bright red. Fuck-me heels. Another distraction. She had red manicured nails, long and glossy. They looked fancy when they were picking up reports off of a desk, or tapping lightly on the plastic back of a cell phone, but they hurt when they were raking across someone's skin.

"Come on, Jones!" snapped Tricia MacNeill into her sleek black Nokia. "I'm sure you can get those to me by tomorrow!"

She ignored her intern's protest of overwork, illness and the three projects she already wanted by tomorrow and shut her phone back closed with a sharp snap.

"What a lazy little shit," she muttered angrily, her heels clicking on the concrete sidewalk as she hurried along the street to the skyscraper. Tricia took long strides up the steps to the glass doors, barely noticing the man who held open the door for her. It was nothing new. Men always held doors open for pretty women.

"Tricia, I just saw Martin Overman, and he asked if you were free for lunch-"

"Save it," said Tricia. "That man has been running after me for six months now. Tell him to go Xerox his own ass, get his kicks that way, all right?"

Her curly-haired secretary nodded and turned back to the computer, ready to execute Tricia's newest order. Tricia headed up towards the fire stairs. She used the fire stairs for two reasons. They toned her thighs. They kept her from meeting all her past bosses in the elevator, most of whom she'd fucked at one time or another, in one way or another, and was now their boss. When she reached the third floor of twenty-six, she stepped out and walked into her office. She preferred the lower floor levels because she told everyone she was afraid of heights. She wasn't. She just liked to appear slightly more innocent because of it. It helped her get into people's hearts and paychecks if she seemed a little vulnerable. Tricia sat down at her desk and began to work.

While he watched.

--- --- ---

Tricia took her break at exactly 10:43 a.m. She liked to travel on the elevator up to the roof and look out. She stood up from her desk, turned past the cubicles and headed towards the glossy metal elevators. Click-click-click went her fuck-me heels on the marble tile as she hurried to catch the elevator before it closed on her. A tall, thirty-something man, subtly handsome in a dark way, leaned out to catch the door before it closed. Tricia smiled at him sweetly and swished her way into the small area, her hips swaying towards him in a way she knew kept men thinking for a quarter of an hour afterwards. Tricia had a small, little girl voice that helped ensnare the pedophiles. She could get them all. She smiled at him again and swiveled around on her heel to face the doors as they slid shut. They let off a corporate executive on the fourth floor and then they were all alone.

"Hello, Tricia." His voice was silky, smooth and slow. Every syllable, all four of them, was measured out and seemed to have been deliberated over. It threw her for a loop.

"How do you know my name?" she asked curiously. He looked down, casting his eyes into shadow.

"I know a lot about you, Tricia," he purred. "I've seen you around."

Tricia curled her lips up in a seductive smile. Passion Red CoverGirl.

"Have you?" she asked in a small voice, biting her finger innocently. "I haven't seen you."

He smiled at her, his dangerous eyes twinkling at her coldly from behind glasses lenses. "No, you wouldn't."

Tricia bit her lip and looked up at the roof of the elevator. He smiled coldly.

"Hard day, Tricia?"

"Oh, the worst," she whispered. "I've got a whole lot of work to do, and I feel like it's all piling up on me."

He ran caressing fingers over the plastic case he carried. "Me too."

Tricia tapped her heels on the floor, click click click click click.

"What's your name?" she asked in a low, purposely breathy voice. He smiled in a slow, thoughtful way.

"Johnny."

"Johnny what?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Let me ask you something, Johnny," said Tricia with a slight inflection on the last syllable of his name, so it came out like she didn't finish speaking it. He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to go on.

"Have you ever done something you know you'll regret later?" she asked above the soft noise of the Muzak. He put down his case with a small thump.

"I think I'm about to," he said calmly. His voice was composed, moderate but still growled in an unmistakable sexual tone. The sound of it got beneath Tricia's skin and made her want to hear the voice saying her name over and over raggedly. Tricia turned to the controls for the elevator and yanked the emergency stop. They were between floors 16 and 17. The room lurched and stopped with a loud mechanical clank. Tricia took a slow, deliberate step towards him, her heel making a muted thump on the thin carpet.

What they did then could not truly be called kissing. It was a fight. Both of them, dueling with their mouths open, crushing each other furiously. His glasses askew, her jacket in a pile on the floor and his case kicked to the side of the little lift. Tricia fisted a handful of his brown hair in her hand, her long nails scratching at his scalp and leaving almost invisible rings of red around the inside of the nail. He growled, deep in his throat, an almost animal-like purr in the sound and let his lips trail down the side of her neck, before Tricia grabbed his face in her free hand and brought it back to her lips. He slammed her up against the cold metal wall and moved his mouth against hers, both of them fighting and biting like animals. She pushed his glasses off and they clattered to the floor behind them, folding up when they hit the soft carpet on the floor of the elevator. Behind the glasses his eyes were a cold blue. But Tricia didn't see them, because her eyes were closed tight and a small shimmer of tears gleamed on the black lashes, from pain, guilt or want it wasn't for anyone to know.

Her skirt pushed up past her hips. Pantyhose ripped at the belt and slid with dexterous hands down long smooth legs until they pooled on the floor in a small, nude colored pile. His belt buckle gleaming in the florescent lighting as it lay with the leather strap of his belt on the floor. Hands fisted in hair. A cold, calculating look still in his eyes when she wrapped her legs around his waist and they both slid down to the floor in a heap, a tangle of limbs.

They managed to arrange their clothes in a few minutes once they finished, Tricia taking a moment to reapply lipstick, using the mirrored walls as her reference. While she was smearing the crimson wax over her lips, she caught sight of him over her shoulder. He was putting his glasses back on, completely calm. Tricia felt like something was lacking, but couldn't put her finger on it. That was the most unexpected occurrence in her life, and somehow his calm frightened her. She turned around and smiled hesitantly at him, smoothing her hands over her wrinkled skirt and shoving the ruined pantyhose in her purse.

He looked at her with the barest hint of a smile on his lips, almost amused by the way she was trying to conceal their hurried tryst. "By the way...Johnny isn't really my name."

Her smile faltered as she started the elevator up again. They didn't say another word to each other as she left the elevator on the top floor. He didn't get out and she wondered fleetingly if he had only gone on the elevator to follow her. But that was ridiculous. She'd never seen him before in her life.

--- --- ---

A few hours later, Tricia MacNeill left her boss' office and straightened her skirt. Her new promotion was in the bag. She ignored her secretary's chattering voice and the sound of the office printer printing off someone's pink slip and walked out of the office. She was taking off early today. As she clicked off down the street her cell phone began to ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. She clicked it open.

"Tricia!" she sing-songed into the reciever.

"Trish!" cried a happy voice. "It's Joe! Remember me? Your boyfriend?"

She laughed, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Hi, sweetie!"

She held the phone away a few inches and made a face.

"So how are things in the corporate ladder?" he asked. Tricia shrugged.

"Fucking," she answered truthfully. He laughed, thinking it was a joke. "How was your tour of...of..."

"Tibet!" he laughed. "I can't believe you forgot where I was!"

"Of course I didn't!" lied Tricia smoothly. "I was just teasing you."

"Well, I'll be coming over later tonight. You still live in the same place?"

"Oh, sure!" giggled Tricia. "I'll be there. I've got some Big News."

Click, she shut off the phone before he could say another thing.

"What a fucking moron," she whispered and shook her head. She walked a few more feet before hearing a muted ringing again. Ring, ring, ring went her little purse. She reached inside and pulled out her little Nokia and flipped it open.

"What?" she barked.

"I suppose you'll only tell him the 'Big News' once he's in the sack with you," purred a soft voice on the other end.

"Who the fuck is this?" snapped Tricia, squinting her eyes in confusion. The voice sounded surprised.

"You don't remember me, Tricia? That hurts my feelings."

Tricia snarled at the phone.

"That's uncalled for. So tell me Tricia, will you tell Joe about all the other men you've slept with while he's off in Tibet? Or will you just dump him with no explanation? You know, people like you really disappoint me. I can tell Joe really loves you. I can't imagine why, can you?"

Tricia stopped in her tracks, her pretty face falling into an expression of horror and dismay. She felt like someone had yanked a rug out from under her feet, and underneath it was a hole and she was falling through it like Alice in the rabbit hole.

"Who are you?" she demanded, feeling bile raise up in her throat. She slowly stepped out of the flow of people and into the shadow of an alley.

"Good, Tricia," commented the voice in the same tone someone would use when congratulating a child on their A+ test. "Now step a few more feet into that alley and maybe we can talk."

As if in a dream, Tricia found herself obeying without question and moving deeper into the darkness of the alley, her red heels slipping in the grime on the ground.

"I bet you're wishing you'd worn the beige flats, aren't you, Tricia?"

Tricia tripped, feeling her heel twist under and skid along the slick ground. She took a few more steps down into the alley, dragging her now-sore ankle and feeling a run start in her new stockings. What had she done? Tricia had no comprehension of regret or any sort of consequences. Another of her thoughts she lived by was, "There are no big mistakes in life, only little boo-boos." But a nagging voice in the back of her mind was telling her she must have made a big mistake somehow, and a little Band-Aid wouldn't help it heal this time.

"Did I-" she stammered, leaning up against a wall for support. "Did I hurt you in any way?" she whispered into her phone, looking up at the sky as if God had the answers to her current predicament. "What do you want?"

"Call Joe," said the voice calmly, as if he was reading "buy potatoes" off a grocery list. Tricia started to sink down against the wall, her muscles collapsing in her horror.

"Stand up, Tricia," reprimanded the voice, and Tricia snapped her legs perfectly straight. There was a faint hint of a smile in the voice when he spoke again. "Good girl. Mother would be proud to see her little girl standing up straight. Now call Joe."

"No," refused Tricia, her voice the petulant whine of a child asked to go to bed early. "I won't call him."

"Really?" asked the man on the other end. He chuckled softly. "I guess I'll have to call him myself then."

"No!" cried Tricia, standing up away from the wall, the shock of his implication rattling her out of her state of stunned lack of activity. "I'll call him. I'll call him."

Tricia quickly clicked the off button on her phone and dialed Joe's number from memory, a memory placed deep into a dark corner of her busy mind. She hadn't called it in so long, and the easy way she pressed the numbers called up a flash of recollection of warmth, hot chocolate, Christmas fires, sleeping naked together on a rug by the fire and happy times. Gone.

"Hello?" answered Joe. Tricia opened her mouth to speak but all that came out was a stifled whimper. With a practiced, automatic hand Tricia reached up to tuck her permed blond mop behind her ear.

"Hello?"

Tricia clapped her hand over her mouth and a cry of emotional pain was muffled into her soft palm. Tricia pulled the phone away from her face and resolutely pressed the off button, then shoved the small sleek phone back into her purse. Turning on her heel, she began walking back towards the entryway of the alley.

The sound of a muffled gunshot, she reflected, sounded a lot like a dart hitting a dartboard. A dull thunk with a metallic undertone from the metal of the dart tip hitting the backing of the cork target. That's what a silenced gunshot sounded like in your ear. The bullet was fired at her from a height. When it hit it let loose a spray of blood, spattering on the ground like paint flying from a flicked brush. The red droplets hit the ground, adding a splash of color to the dark, slimy grime coating the floor of the alley. Tricia screamed and fell over, but no one on the street heard or cared. The phone flew out of her bag when it hit the ground and skidded a few feet away from her outstretched hand. It began to ring, and Tricia strained to reach it.

--- --- ---

To be continued...


	2. Violation

A Perfect Violation

Lea of Mirkwood

____________________

The phone kept ringing. Tricia reached for it desperately, her fingers twitching convulsively. Ring ring, Tricia. Ring ring. Finally, as though Tricia could hear the sound of the gun again, she lunged for the small cell and her fingers closed around its plastic case, snapping one of her nails off in the process. She flicked it open and pressed it to her ear, the sound of her own breathing echoing over her own phone and returning to her receiver.

"You shot me!" she cried, her tiny voice becoming thin and frightened. "God, you shot me!"

A low chuckle carried over the line, laughing dryly at her.

"I told you not to hang up, didn't I, Tricia?"

Tricia ignored the smooth voice whispering in her ear and turned to look down at her thigh. Her skirt had ripped apart and blood was beginning to seep through the tattered edge, red like her nail polish. She reached down and pressed her hand to the bloody spot, the hot, sticky fluid seeping through her fingers.

"That hurts!" she gasped, biting her lip. A soft purr sounded in the earpiece.

"My, my, little Tricia. What lovely red lips you have," observed the voice. Tricia let out a cry and looked down at the ground, the tip of her nose dragging in the grime and dirt and coloring it a sooty black.

"Don't look at me..." she sobbed, clenching her hand tighter around the wound on her thigh. "You already shot me, please don't...look..."

"I didn't shoot you, Tricia," said the voice, sounding mildly irritated. "I barely even grazed you. Stop crying."

"You shot me!" cried Tricia, her lips trembling and tears rolling down her cheeks, gathering on her glossed mouth and dropping to the ground.

"Come on, Tricia, stand up."

"I can't," Tricia MacNeill whimpered, tightening her grip on her cell phone. "You shot me."

"YES!" yelled the voice, the sound an explosion. "I SHOT YOU TRICIA! I fired a gun when it was aimed at that lovely, creamy thigh of yours. It hit you. You're bleeding. You're in pain. But you know what? I don't give a shit, so get up now."

Tricia stood up shakily, her knees knocking together and she leaned against the dirty wall for support.

"I'm up!" she sobbed. "What do you want?"

"I want your complete attention. Do I have that? Are you listening to me, Tricia?"

"Yes!" she cried, clenching a fist by the side of her head.

"Good," said the voice calmly. "I'm very glad to hear that. Now I want you to do something for me. I want you to call your boyfriend. Call Joe. You didn't do so well with that last time, so I think I'll give you another chance at it."

"You shot me!" gasped Tricia, wrinkling her dirty nose and trying to blink away tears. "Why should I?"

"Tricia," said the voice seriously, the tone completely flat and cold. "If I hear you say 'you shot me' one more time, I think I'll have to shoot you in the stomach. That way, your internal organs will be damaged beyond repair, and you'll lie on the ground slowly bleeding to death, in extreme pain. So be careful, darling."

Tricia let out a choked cry and pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling sobs behind scraped knuckles. "Okay! Just…please don't shoot me."

There was a pause, as if her tormentor was checking the time, or looking at his hands. "I believe they used to call a shot like that a maggot shot. Now call Joe. I want to listen."

"How?" asked Tricia, momentarily distracted. "You can't listen in on it if I'm on this phone, I have to hang up."

A soft breath into the phone, almost like a laughing caress. "I've bugged your phone, Tricia. I hear everything you say, and everything Joe says to you."

While Tricia was blankly processing this information, a click and whirr sounded in her ear and she heard her own voice, slightly scratchy, but definitely her soft, child's voice.

"Tricia!" sang her happy self of barely a half hour ago.

"Trish! It's Joe! Remember me? Your boyfriend?"

"Hi, sweetie!"

"So how are things in the corporate ladder?"

"Fucking,"

It clicked off, and she heard hoarse laughter in her ear again. "I like that, Tricia. Fucking. That's very appropriate. In fact, I think it's the only honest thing you've told little Joey in a few months, isn't it? Fucking. You've been fucking a lot of people, Tricia. I think it's time for you to come clean. Call Joe."

"No."

"No? No, Tricia? Do you remember what I told you about a maggot shot? Now you already know I can shoot. Don't make me do this to you again. Call Joe."

"What do I say?" asked Tricia blankly, as if she'd never made a phone call before in her life.

"How about this? Do you want to hear a sample script?" offered the caller cruelly. "'Hello, Joe. Are you feeling happy today?' 'Why yes, Tricia, I'm thrilled. See, I love you and just got back from Tibet, and I want to see you tonight.' 'Oh, thank you honey. That's so sweet of you. But you see, I've been cheating on you with about a dozen men in my company since you went to Tibet, and even before!'"

Tricia's jaw dropped and she stared fixedly at a point on the brick wall across from her. "That's not…"

"Oh, but Tricia," said the voice smoothly. "You know it's true. Hotels, desks, closets, copy rooms, their room, your room, bathroom stalls…you're quite the adaptive one, aren't you?"

"Leave me alone," mumbled Tricia petulantly.

"Leave you-" the caller barked out a quick laugh. "Leave you alone? But Tricia, you talked to me first!"

"I did not! I-"

"It wasn't a long conversation, but I'll remember it forever. But let's not talk about that now. Let's talk about Joe. I want you to dial his number. It's on auto nine. Funny, the last time I talked to someone like you, his wife was auto one. I guess Joe isn't that high on your list of priorities, is he?"

"Yes, he is, he-"

"Shut up and dial, Tricia."

Tricia clicked the off button, breaking off another nail in the process. Auto…nine. The phone rang. Ring ring.

"Hello? Tricia, is that you?"

"Hi, Joe," said Tricia shakily, a tremor in her soft voice.

"What's wrong, baby?" he asked, suddenly concerned. And Tricia felt a thrill of fear down her spine. She felt cold and abandoned. The horrible voice wasn't there. She didn't know what he was doing. He could be lining up her head…her belly…in the rifle sights. She didn't know. He wasn't talking. She didn't know what he was doing. A dark, twisting feeling started in the pit of her stomach. She needed the voice back.

"I'm…I'm a little scared, Joe," she whispered. Yes, scared. Scared of the rifleman with his tactical scope and bullets. Scared of Joe. Scared of the blood running down her leg and dripping into her shoe. But terrified and horrified with the need to hear the voice again, telling her what to do so he wouldn't kill her. One slip of the tongue in talking to Joe without the lifeline telling her the words to say, and she…would…die.

"Of what, baby?" asked Joe in concern. "Did you get mugged?"

"No, no…" she said faintly, "Not mugged. I'm just…"

"Tricia, I want you to talk to me. Talk to me now, all right, honey?"

Tricia froze.

--- --- ---

To be concluded…

--- --- ---

Kiera Kingsley, you rule! Thank you so much for the review, and telling me I was right on.

Cinesister, thank you for putting the phrase "sniper sex" into my head!

Nahana, Kadama, I'm sure I thanked you for the reviews in person.

Jet-1, I will certainly complete this. Don't worry, I've just been busy.

Jade, thank you immensely! That's such a compliment, I can't believe it's for me!

Zeech, as always. You always give me reviews that make my day. Thank you for driving me insane until I wrote this.


	3. Disintegration

A Perfect Violation

Lea of Mirkwood

* * *

_I lay dying_

_and__ I'm pouring crimson regret and betrayal_

_I'm dying praying bleeding and screaming_

_Am I too lost to be saved?_

_Am I too lost?_

   - Tourniquet, Evanescence

* * *

"I…I can't talk to you right now. I'm scared," mumbled Tricia, biting her lip. "I don't know what to do. I'm…I don't know what to do."

Joe's voice turned even more concerned. "Tricia? What's wrong with you?"

"Mm…my leg hurts."

"Why, honey?" he asked, his voice sounding like a far away world to Tricia. Her resolve slowly weakened, and she longed for something to save her. Anything to save Joe from what he was about to hear.

"Because." She hiccupped, and bit her lip, leaving red marks like blood on the edge of her teeth. "My promotion. It's…it's not mine."

"You lied?" asked Joe, a hurt element entering his tone. A slight feeling, unfamiliar and painful, entered Tricia's chest. It was like a knot, burning in her insides. It took her a minute to realize what it was. Guilt.

"No, I got the promotion," said Tricia hurriedly, brushing hair out of her eyes. "It's just…I did a lot of things to get it…that I shouldn't have."

"What did you do, hon?" Joe's voice was supportive. Gentle. Like his touch, which Tricia suddenly remembered with startling clarity. She coughed.

"Fucked somebody," she replied clearly. "Fucked a lot of somebodies."

Joe didn't breathe. He didn't try to laugh it off. She couldn't even hear the sound of his breath. Then suddenly she heard a choking, dry laugh. 

"You're lying," he said hoarsely. "You're lying again, Tricia. When will you stop LYING TO ME?!"

"I'm not lying," said Tricia softly. "I'm sorry. I fucked people, Joe. I went to their offices and took off my panties and let them-"

Click. The call ended and the voice of her nightmares spoke again. "What was that you were saying about panties, Tricia?"

Tricia burst into tears and leaned her head against the wall, bracing her good leg against the ground to keep from collapsing.

"I hate you!" she cried furiously through her tears. "Why did you make me do that?"

"Because. You're inhuman, Tricia. You're a terrible person." There was a hint of a smile in his voice. "And I hate people like that."

Tricia's chest heaved with sobbing and she placed her hand over where her loose silk blouse gapped at the neck, trying to calm her breathing. She heard a gentle sigh over the phone line and a rustling noise, like someone straining to look someplace.

"Don't cover up."

Tricia snatched her hand away from her chest again.

"Fuck you."

She heard a low, throaty chuckle. Like irony.

"Gladly, Tricia."

"How could you do this to me?"

A long, low sigh. "You still don't understand," he said, and then in a voice she barely heard and didn't pay attention to, "You probably will never understand."

Tricia fell silent, her chest slowly rising and falling. She wiped her hand across her face, leaving a smear of dirt across her cheekbone. He didn't speak. Before she could decide what to do, her good leg slid to the side, forcing her other leg to strike the wall. The pain became unbearable. It shot up her thigh and spread to her torso and she couldn't feel her leg below the knee. Sweat beads popped out across her forehead and she gasped loudly in pain, doubling over.

"God, my leg!" moaned Tricia and went to clap her hand over the wound in the instant reaction everyone has when something hurts: touch it. Just before the palm of her hand closed over the source of the pain, she heard a tsking sound from the phone in her hand.

"Don't touch it," he said coldly. "Don't move your hand towards it."

Tricia's head lolled back on her shoulders and it cracked against the concrete wall, making her wince even harder. "Please," she begged. "Please."

"No, I don't think so."

"It hurts!" whimpered Tricia, biting down on her lower lip until it turned white under the gaudy lipstick. "It hurts!"

"Gunshot wounds generally do." He sighed deeply. "If you touch it, I will kill you."

Tricia gripped the edge of the dumpster next to her tightly, until one of her fingernails broke from the pressure. She gritted her teeth as tears slowly slid down her cheeks. A weak wail of pain escaped her throat and found its way out, which made the voice chuckle.

"All right, all right," he said with a voice full of amusement. "On your knees, Tricia."

"What?" gasped the executive weakly, barely keeping her hold on the cell phone in her hands as she struggled not to collapse.

"On your knees," he repeated with a less amused tone.

"But I can't!" moaned Tricia. "It'll hurt!"

"On your knees and pray," he said coldly. "Pray to God to save you. Pray. Tell him you're sorry. That you deserve hell."

Tricia swallowed convulsively. "You don't believe in God."

"That's not your concern. On your knees."

Tricia took a deep breath and pushed herself away from the metal dumpster until she was wavering on one strong leg and one barely useless one. Slowly, taking ragged breaths, Tricia lowered herself on the knee of her healthy leg. The pain shot up through her veins, aching stabs like boiling oil in her veins. She'd never experienced such pain and Tricia screamed. The sound echoed in the alley and ricocheted against the walls. She wailed and howled with the pain as she forced her wounded leg to bend and she nearly fainted with the pain of putting weight on it. She bent down, still pressing the phone to her ear, reduced to a small, mewling creature with nothing left.

"Prayer time, Tricia," said the caller. "Do you remember your prayers from Sunday school?"

Tricia didn't respond at first but kept whimpering with the burning, aching pain. "God," she began shakily. "God, please."

"Go on, Tricia."

"I should be in hell." Tricia choked. "Oh God, please. If I die-"

"I think that's enough, Tricia. You can do something now."

Tricia's hands immediately flew to press against the bloody hole in her thigh, sticky redness staining her hands almost instantly. After a few moments where she just tried to hold in the blood and the pain, she reached for her purse. She fumbled around inside it with one hand until she located the twisted rope of her ruined pantyhose and pulled it out. As she shook it out to try and make it more usable, the phone cradled in the crook of her neck pressed to her ear laughed at her dryly.

"Ever resourceful, aren't you?"

Tricia ignored him and tried to pass the end of the hose under her leg while the voice continued to taunt her.

"Now why on earth is your pantyhose ruined, Tricia?" he asked. "Have a bit too much fun?"

Tricia groaned with pain as she tried to raise herself up to wrap the sheer nylon around her thigh a second time. "What are you…talking about?" she managed to moan distractedly as she tied a tight knot in the hose and tucked the loose ends under against the wound.

"You like fun, don't you, Tricia?" purred the voice softly. "And you had a lot of fun. Enough fun to ruin those nice hose."

Tricia raised her head slowly to look up at the surrounding windows with a dawning horror.

"How do you know about that?" she whispered in horror. The voice laughed.

"I know, Tricia."

A chilling certainly crept down Tricia's spine as she cowered on the ground. Her breath came in shorter and shorter gasps as the horror of her own actions burned into her consciousness.

"I…"

"Yes, Tricia," he said softly, caressingly. "You know me. You remember me."

"Oh God…"

"You fucked me in that elevator without a thought. If I hadn't come along after you, you'd never even remember me. You almost didn't. You're cold and heartless. You didn't give me a second thought."

A moan slid from Tricia's lips, almost involuntary. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. If I'd known, I'd-"

"You'd have what?" asked her tormentor. "Not fucked me in that elevator? Of course not. But that would have been a pity."

"Why?" moaned Tricia, her fingers digging into the flesh of her thigh.

"Why? I'd have been sad. I wouldn't have been sure of your nature. No, Tricia, I rather enjoyed it. It's been quite a while since I've had a woman of your…caliber. I've watched you for a long time. You're a very beautiful woman, Tricia. I've done things to you in my mind that you'd never believe. You've been a favorite thought of mine. I'm glad I got to have the real thing."

Tricia bowed her head, sobbing convulsively. Her chest heaved, gleaming with the sweat of her horror and her pain.

"But you don't look so nice now, do you, Tricia?" growled the voice in her ear, becoming more agitated and grating. "Do you? I don't think so, dear. No, you look terrible. You look hideous. You look like what you really are, a sick, twisted rat, cowering in a back alley after you've fucked someone as hard as you can. You whore, Tricia. This is your element, isn't it? This is where you belong, now maybe someone will beat you for the little money you have in your pitiful Prada wallet. Wouldn't that be nice?" As Tricia's sobs increased in volume until they became a near keening wail, his mouth relented. "I'm sorry, Tricia. You're a beautiful, wonderful girl and you have gleaming ambitions. Don't cry."

Slowly Tricia's sobs trailed off into brief hiccoughs. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving a trail of pale skin in the layer of grime and bloody smears. "Can I go home?" asked Tricia meekly.

"No, sweetie," purred her caller. "You have to call Joe again and say you're very, very sorry for cheating on him."

Whimpering, Tricia pressed her hand more firmly against the gaping hole in her thigh covered by a film of wrapped pantyhose, sticky red blood seeping through. "But my leg hurts," she protested. "Can I…can I take some aspirin? It…it…" Tricia's voice rose into a sudden cry of pain. "It _hurts_!"

"No, you may not. Call Joe, Tricia. Hang up on me, call Joe. It's not difficult."

Tricia hiccoughed one more time and pressed the off button, then called Joe. He answered dully, like he couldn't care again about talking on the phone, or drinking orange juice, or talking to people. It hit Tricia that she'd done this to him. She couldn't excuse it, but she could do something.

"Joe, I'm sorry," whispered Tricia.

"You're _sorry_?" echoed Joe, letting a heaving gasp escape from his throat. "You…that's just it, you're sorry? After you did all that to me, all you can say is that you're sorry? Fuck you!"

"I'm so sorry, Joe," she said simply, her face gentle in one moment of last tearful humanity. "I never wanted to hurt you, and I did love you. I'm sorry."

Tricia hung up the phone on a weeping, angry Joe and set it in her lap. Covering her face with one hand, she let the tears fall.

The phone rang, and Tricia answered, not saying anything, but there was a different light in her eyes.

"There, there, Tricia," murmured the gentle voice, slowly caressing in its velvet weight. "It's all right. You did well. You can take your aspirin now."

Tricia coughed and opened the clasp on her purse with shaking fingers, somehow managing to remove her lacquered pill box and open it, removing two white pills. She tossed them in her mouth and swallowed quickly, gagging on the bitter, chalky residue it left without a glass of water to chase it down. She swallowed again and again, trying to take the taste from her tongue.

"You're so kind to me," she said softly, tipping her head forward again.

Catch. A pause, as the caller searched for the sarcasm, the lie in her voice. Curveball. He chuckled.

"Don't laugh!" protested Tricia, her brow creasing and tears catching her tone. "You…you've saved me. I…I could have died from the gunshot but you let me take the aspirin and wrap it up. You did that for me. You did."

Her emotions flowed in a pathetically saccharine manner for a few more minutes, but in the mind of the caller they were hardly worth noting and hardly worth paying attention to. There was no point and no end to her mindless babble and he knew what was wrong with her. Quite common, though the thought of it, its very concept, made him want to laugh.

"Don't be stupid, Tricia," he said calmly. "I'm not kind to you. This is only the first, acute stages of Stockholm Syndrome. It's a mental issue, of which I'm sure you'd develop many if I let you continue on acting like such an idiot for much longer."

"No!" cried Tricia brokenly. "No, it's not!"

He laughed.

"Don't laugh at me, please!"

He drew in a breathless, half-laugh. "I'll hang up!" he said teasingly, like a little boy on the playground holding Tricia's diary just out of her hands, dancing, dancing and she begged.

"No!" exclaimed Tricia with a howl. "Please, please, please don't! Stay on the line, stay with me!"

"No, Tricia, you've been naughty. I'll leave you, Tricia. I'll hang up and never, ever come back because you're terrible and cruel. I don't want to talk to you any more, Tricia. I'm hanging up on you. I'll press this little button here…three…two…"

"NO! Please, no! Don't leave me!"

"Just…just this little tiny button with the little red circle on it. I'll push it and you can't call me back. I'll be gone. You'll never know what to do."

"Please, please…"

His voice went on, tormenting and toying with her confused mind until she felt near to collapse. Tricia leaned back against the wall, screwing up her face in a contorted mask of anguish as her golden curls scraped up a good deal of the grime and dust on the brick wall behind her head.

He cocked the gun. He cocked the gun, a smooth, mechanical sliding _click_ that was instantly recognizable as the sound of terror, more potent in Tricia's world than the sight of a dark cloak and a scythe. That sound meant Death, in all its horror and uncertainty, something unfamiliar to Tricia's sheltered mind. It paralyzed the breakdown of her mind and kicked in her adrenaline, but at once froze her in place. She backed up into the corner between Dumpster and wall, wildly looking in all corners and trying to slam herself further backwards, free hand slapping against the wall in her frenzied attempt to make herself small enough to miss, tiny enough to disappear and sink away into Nothing.

"Oh, God," she gasped in a small voice, the only thing coming to mind the church services she went to as a child and the way the great crucifix loomed over her little blond head, more cornsilk in her youth. Latin mass echoed in her memory, solemn and worshipful. For a moment she felt free, but then all was gone and she was still in her corner, cowering behind a dumpster in a back alley of New York City, with a gun pointed at her head and no prayer or God that she felt could take her.

"You've ruined lives, Tricia MacNeill. You've gotten your way to your high position by making people miserable and fucking them. You've broken Joe's heart. You might as well have killed him. You used me for a quick fuck in the elevator and didn't give a shit about me. You're useless. You're nothing." The tone of Tricia's call-waiting stopped him from continuing. Answering the unasked question by the confusion on her face, he said simply, "Take it."

Tricia pressed the button and answered with an empty, "Hello?"

"It's Joe," said the other line flatly. "I've packed all you things up. You can come pick them up whenever you want or-" His cold tone took a bitter turn. "-you can have someone from your office do it for you."

"Thank you," murmured Tricia and flashed back over to her primary call.

"Welcome back, Tricia," said the caller wryly. Tricia nodded numbly. "Do you have anything else to say?"

"No," said Tricia in a broken voice that no one would have heard two feet away, but the receiver next to her lips caught. The creaking sound, faint as a sigh, of the rifle lining her up in its sights, traveled across the signal to her ear. She wiped her face across with the back of her hand, removing more grime until she looked almost human once more, pale but there. She shook her head desolately. "I've lost everything," she whispered softly.

"It's our choices, Tricia," said the caller frankly, no games. It was the least he could do. No more games with a condemned woman.

"But what do I do?" she asked, relying to the last.

"Nothing."

Something broke, some dam in her mind and Tricia sat up straight, grinding a fist into her forehead. She screamed, a primal howl of pain and agony, like a wounded animal.

"YOU'VE RUINED MY LIFE!" she howled into the phone, clutching it in her dirty fingers like she wanted it to crumble to dust. "I NEVER DID ANYTHING TO YOU!"

"You're inhuman, Tricia," he answered. "You're heartless and you're a whore."

With a last scream of wordless fury, Tricia rose to her feet powerfully, the pain in her leg forgotten in a wave of hot fury, of the heat of her choice. With a resolute growl of finality, she hurled the tiny cell phone at the ground. It shattered, tiny electronic pieces scattering across the alley and skittering on the slimy concrete. Without paying any heed to her purse or the stabbing pain in her leg she started to walk quickly down the alley, away from the hell beside the Dumpster. The light from the street and the sun, obscured by tall buildings in the alley, started to brighten and she felt like a girl in a fairy tale, overcoming evil and leaving the dark haunted woods behind.

She made it halfway to the street before he shot her in the back. It felt like a swift tug, as if someone had her back with a fishhook and pulled it towards the front of her chest, and then the inexpressible pain began. She fell forward, to her knees, then face down on the concrete. With gasps as she fought to drag air into her ripped lungs, Tricia rolled over onto her back. Her leg kicked out, convulsively and she coughed, the sound thick with blood slowly rising in her windpipe. She blinked once and then died, blank blue eyes staring up at the sky in a parody of life. The look on her face was one of innocent surprise, like she had just seen something unexpected and not entirely unwelcome. There was no tricky gleam or calculating smile. She was young and beautiful, the kind of girl you'd look twice at, a child again before her sins and her choices ruined her and left her an empty cold shell. Now there was nothing.

**Fin.**

* * *

_I lay dying_

_and__ I'm pouring crimson regret and betrayal_

_I'm dying praying bleeding and screaming_

_Am I too lost to be saved?_

_Am I too lost?_

   - Tourniquet, Evanescence

* * *

It was actually Kellifer Monkey's review that made me kick my ass into gear and type up what I'd already outlined. Thank you to all who read this and stayed with me through my pathetically sporadic updates. I can't believe anyone is patient enough to tolerate my crap. (Yes, a maggot shot does exist, it was referred to in Young Guns II. Fear my geekness and extensive memory on ANYTHING Kiefer related.)

Thanks again for reading, and please review to tell me what you think of the ending.


End file.
